


wisp

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hannibal is down with diner food 2k19, M/M, THIS IS NOW CANON, UST, flirtation, hannibal smokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 21:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: Will’s grateful they’re all a bit drowsy, appreciating the way Jack missed the subtle gesture of thanks he gave Hannibal for holding open the door for him earlier (actually, holding it open for a pack of kids and their knockoff stiletto-wearing mother, clad in a faded, unwashed jacket and too much pink makeup), fingertips light against Hannibal’s abdomen as the other man ushered him inside with a gentle press of his palm on the base of Will’s spine.-A case brings the BAU down South. Will thinks on the barely-there physical contact he’s had with his Not-Psychiatrist. Vaguely S1-AU, featuring early flirtation.





	wisp

**Author's Note:**

> This was literally the first thing I ever wrote for Hannigram, although I haven’t posted it till now. Please enjoy all the UST and eye-gazing. 
> 
> Listen to “A Good Man is Hard to Find” by Bessie Smith in the background while reading. And then consider what happened at the end of S1.

Will’s been staring at their evidence board—the latest in a long series of them since the Shrike—for hours, and it’s starting to wear on his confidence.

“So, let’s hear it, Graham. What can you tell us that we don’t already know, short of nothing,” Sergeant Donovan barks, to a few snickers that are quieted in a hurry by Jack’s smoldering running-on-empty glare.

“Nothing is what _you _have,” Will snaps back, hating himself for rising to the bait, though seventy-two hours on this and another killing in the midst of it isn’t helping matters. At his elbow, Hannibal tilts his head, considering, grabbing Will’s forearm tightly when his fist starts to clench. There will be purple bruises in the shape of Hannibal’s fingers within a few hours, and still, Will doesn’t stop talking.

“Look at the photos,” he insists, Donovan sliding a coffee-stained tongue over yellowed teeth. He’s used to pushback from people who know of the more eccentric points of his reputation, but mostly locals are accommodating about sharing or relinquishing jurisdiction, mainly focused on getting the danger out of their town. Donovan, in his delusions of grandeur, had already made his mind up about the worth of Will’s opinions before any one of their team had walked in the door. “What do you see?”

“Bedrooms. Parlors. Goddamned bar bathrooms. Nothing alike in terms of setting, or victimology,” Donovan answers, smooth in spite of himself.

“Greenville, Norfolk, Attison, Broadridge, and now here,” Will mutters. “Killers grow more confident, sometimes return to their home range, like nesting birds. That’s not as important as motive, in this case.”

Donovan grits his teeth, superiority in his expression yet none of it in his voice when he says, “Motive don’t mean jack shit unless we find _who_.”

“You’re missing what he’s saying, sergeant,” Hannibal cuts in, Donovan fixing a bloodthirsty stare on him, a junkyard dog at feedin’ time. “These cases are connected; remove any lingering doubts that they aren’t. Whatever motive is behind these killings, be it robbery or personal vendetta, will lead you to a viable suspect.”

“Personal vendetta, doctor?” Jack frowns. “R & I ran financials and social media. They didn’t find any interaction between any of the victims.”

“It’s an _example_, Jack,” Will says, exhaling loudly into his cupped hands. Almost a yawn, but since they’ve already seen him sweat, concealing his body’s other basic responses to exhaustion is second nature. Cover his vulnerable belly, so it won’t be cut.

“Get out of here,” Jack says, pinning their latest victim to the corkboard. Miles Taylor, 42. Owned a tiling business downtown. “Get some rest, and we’ll all come back bright and early and try not to make complete asses of ourselves during Sergeant Donovan’s next clusterfuck of a media release.”

More scattered laughter, stronger than the dry coughs Donovan’s own pep talk had prompted earlier.

The trashcan is so full of half-empty coffee cups and decimated energy drinks that Hannibal subtly curls his lip at when no one save Will is looking.

Last night, Donovan had “accidentally” let it slip that the perpetrator stole family photos off their victims, and tip lines had flooded with tales of kleptomaniac cousins and everyone in the last twenty years who’d so much as indulged in a little drunken B & E was suddenly suspect. Their online page had crashed for hours before one of the techs back at Quantico had gotten it back up.

The guy was about as much of a media hog as Frederick Chilton, Will thought, disdain clear when Donovan wished everyone a perfunctory goodnight and he didn’t even give so much as a nod in return to his unwanted guests.

“Well, gentlemen,” Jack says. “Twenty-four-hour diner around the corner. Who’s up for some chicken and waffles?”

  
  
  


The place—all twenty-seven orange vinyl booths of it—is a tourist trap for sure, boasting nothing more than homey checkered tablecloths and layers upon layers of caked-on maple syrup and bacon grease. It’s been so long since they’ve had something to eat that even Hannibal thinks it smells appetizing as anything by the time they’re seated, him and Will cramped side-by-side, Jack with free reign of the space across from them, already deep into his menu.

Will’s grateful they’re all a bit drowsy, appreciating the way Jack missed the subtle gesture of thanks he gave Hannibal for holding open the door for him earlier (actually, holding it open for a pack of kids and their knockoff stiletto-wearing mother, clad in a faded, unwashed jacket and too much pink makeup), fingertips light against Hannibal’s abdomen as the other man ushered him inside with a gentle press of his palm on the base of Will’s spine.

“You the FBI men? Oh, _honey_, they still make ‘em like they used to,” their waitress greets, practically beaming at Jack. She’s about thirty years too old for any of them to be interested, but it’s almost welcoming, nonetheless, after the sorry past three days they’ve had.

“Coffee and a short stack,” Jack says, not in the mood for chicken and waffles after all. “Bacon and cheese omelet, thanks.”

“Pork cutlet, with eggs over easy. Thank you.”

“Um, chicken and dumpling soup. Please.”

“You want dessert, too? Pie’s on me. Anything a-la-mode comes in a skillet, honey,” she says, and Jack nearly grins back when he relents, “Okay, apple for me.”

“Suit yourself,” she chuckles, when Will and Hannibal decline. Will half wonders if she’s going to reach over to pinch their cheeks as Jack’s expression turns dour, and she gracefully chooses to leave without any further attempt at socializing.

“Is that really all we have? A motive we don’t know?”

Will exhales into cupped hands, trying to conceal a loud cough that builds in the back of his throat. Reminds himself to take a spare zinc supplement, when he has the time.

“Donovan was getting ahead of himself, and everyone’s past exhausted, working the tiling homicide. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with it, but they found cigarette butts at the scene, and at the one in Greenville too. Greenville had some scorching on the hotel carpet.”

“Is he a traveling salesman who can’t kick a habit?” Jack offers, but Will can see it in his eyes, he just wants Will to be the one to say it out loud. Like watching a heinously crafted magic trick; doesn’t pay to cut off the artist at the punch.

“It’s conjecture at this point, Jack, but I’m guessing we’re looking for someone who’s…methodology has developed in unexpected ways over the past months.”

Hannibal thanks the returning waitress for their plates, responds in the negative to her cooing attempts to get them to purchase another pie-in-a-skillet, and adds his own two cents in the same breath. Will, who has spent enough time with his Not-Psychiatrist to appreciate the man’s considerable talents, is nonetheless reluctantly impressed.

Put a beer in the man’s hand, have him hollering at an invisible bartender for another, and Will would be done for.

“So, he’s been caught at something suspicious recently. Maybe even arrested. Found himself needing to change the way he carried out his attacks.”

Will nods. “I’d tell Donovan to check arrest records for arson or fire-related vandalism in the past year. That was how our killer had originally planned to escalate, but he’s surprisingly adaptable.”

Jack scoffs. “And if only we could find a way to let Donovan know without making it seem like we pulled a prophecy off a crystal ball. Fuck professional courtesy, I’m going to his lieutenant about this. She seems to be less concerned with the media, at least.”

“Suit yourself,” Will shrugs, frowning so Jack won’t miss that this is hardly a solid theory, though they both feel he’s touching on the first real thing they’ve had on this case since SAC Noonan dropped it on Jack’s lap at the section’s last budgetary review.

“It’s good information, Will,” Jack says gruffly, resigned that work’s done for today and not quite believing his good fortune as he cuts into his dessert, fruit custard piping hot and drenched in enough vanilla ice cream to drown the entire thing.

Will watches him for a guilty second, and wonders if this is how his boss acts in the comfort of his own home, realizing Jack probably doesn’t let anyone see him like this unless it’s on the job and everyone around him is too tired to weigh workplace dignity against genuine relief at catching a decent break.

“Pardon me,” Hannibal says, and Will gets that it was strategic, now, him sitting on the outside of the booth, Hannibal drawing a pack of surprisingly cheap cigarettes out of his jacket and tapping one out into his hand.

The bell over the door rings as he exits, and the diner lights are bright enough to highlight the puff of smoke that goes up a moment later, the rest of the street long gone dark, like he’s standing out over the edge of the world.

“Someone else who can’t kick a habit,” Jack points out, lacking judgment, and Will hums.

“I don’t blame him,” he says. “It’s been a while since I had one, but seems like a good idea.”

“Given the circumstances? You just said our unsub likes lighting up, too.”

“Even given the circumstances. It’s pretty poetic, you’ve got to admit that.”

Jack, well acquainted with the gallows humor of a beat cop staring evil in the face, shoos him away accordingly, gesturing to his half-eaten dessert.

“More for me,” he says.

Will looks, specifically, for the human moment that most people have, instinctively turning toward a noise or acknowledging the presence of another person occupying the space nearby, but Hannibal doesn’t so much as flinch at the clatter of the doorbell behind him.

He wonders if his psychiatrist had to train himself out of the reflexive movement or if the reflex was never present in the first place, decides it’s a headache of a question to ask someone whose idea of a good time was stuffing your gullet full of homemade delicacies as prelude to teasing out whatever madness leaked from between your ears.

_Your eyes aren’t distracting_, he wants to say. _There’s nothing in them but perpetual satisfaction, and that’s a lot more interesting than I gave you credit for._

Saying nothing, he mutely accepts the cigarette Hannibal offers him.

Thinks, lamely, of that old movie where an actress holds out hers to the open air and a dozen men clamor with their lighters to get her attention. That’s nearly what it feels like, when the full force of Hannibal’s satisfaction—at what, his assessment of the case, his indulgence in a little nicotine, the way he wore his hair today?—hits him.

The flick of a lighter, and Hannibal’s half-smirk, his eyes glowing orange for a moment before he douses the flame with a dull _click_.

He wanted Will to follow him out here, and Will doubts there’s a whole lot of thing that Hannibal Lecter wants in life that he doesn’t get.

“You’re back to sweaters and sport-coats,” he observes, taking a drag and weighing the awkwardness of Jack finishing up inside and coming out on the sidewalk to join them. Wardrobe choice seems like a safe enough topic to linger on.

Hannibal shows a bit of canine when he smiles this time, and Will’s glad he’s got the adobe-colored building façade to fall back on, because he recognizes that smile. Those sorts of expressions always used to trick him into doing something stupid in the back of some boy’s temperamental old Ford.

“One has to adjust to the heat, while maintaining professional standards of dress. The temperature alone would drive me to homicide,” Hannibal says easily, though Will gets that Baltimore summers aren’t anything to sneeze at with the humidity.

His eyes skate over Hannibal’s ridiculous gunmetal jacket and he tries not to think of what it would look like thrown aside on the puke-green motel carpet.

“You look like you’re hoping for something stronger than a cigarette, Will,” Hannibal says, and it’s unnerving, how he already knows Will well enough to guess he was working his way up to forming a coherent thought without ever actually being able to spit it out. If Hannibal hadn’t said anything, he probably wouldn’t have managed it before the reality of tomorrow’s responsibilities got in the way.

Getting his tongue unstuck is surprisingly easy after the first move’s been made, but still. A few casual touches here and there, a guiding hand and a quick _thank you_ in return, it isn’t this.

He’s actually less-than-glad Hannibal’s not wearing a tie, though the look that Hannibal gives him seems very much as if Will’s dragged him forward by one, rising up to meet him halfway as Will reaches out to him with his left hand.

“Paint the town red?” he asks, index finger on the vee of Hannibal’s sweater, right where his collar’s unbuttoned, the sharp jut of his collarbone contrasting with the slight tickle of hair. “Or maybe just a beer.”

They’re not entirely too close together to draw attention, though Will steps away as Jack emerges from the diner, clutching his credit card, a receipt, and a ticket that probably has their waitress’s number on it, from the vigorous way she’s waving at them through the window.

“Melinda—Linda, that’s her name, says, and I quote, ‘Come back anytime’,” Jack says, gives a polite wave back. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna dive headfirst into a boilermaker. You up for it?”

“I can drink you both under the table,” Will says, though this easygoing, company-oriented answer is not the answer Jack was expecting, and he raises a brow.

“If that’s what a little nicotine does for you, you might wanna take it easy on the booze,” Jack says, though he hands the rental keys to Hannibal, who seems amused, rather than offended, at being dubbed designated driver.

Jack practically speed-walks toward the other end of Main Street—heading to the closest neon sign is always the best bet—but Will hangs behind, waiting for another moment to tide him over before his boss and Sergeant Donovan are once again breathing down their necks.

_Paint the town red, or…_

“Maybe two beers,” Hannibal grins, and though he doesn’t reach out to close the distance between them, they fall into step together, Will feeling his face color at the echo of Hannibal’s fingers on him from earlier today.

_Maybe a little more than that_, he thinks, and smiles to himself, their hands brushing as they walk.

**Author's Note:**

> He’s gonna need a little more than just a beer after looking at all those fucked up crime scene photos, Hannibal thought to himself. He’s gonna need two beers.
> 
> -
> 
> I am @penseeart on Twitter.


End file.
